


Unkempt

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Community: wrestlingkink, Episode Tag, F/M, Fingerfucking, Hate Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7334506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph finds Dean Ambrose repulsive.  Clearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unkempt

**Author's Note:**

> Set shortly after the close of the 6.27.16 episode of RAW, and related to/cross-posted at [this prompt](http://wrestlingkink.dreamwidth.org/279.html?thread=913687#cmt913687) at the continually-excellent [wrestling kink meme](http://wrestlingkink.dreamwidth.org). ♥

“Sure you don't want my autograph?” he asks, his voice grating on her nerves like the sandpaper in his throat. “Could put it right here.” His thumb grazes against the inside of her thigh, and the probably-filthy tape still wrapped around his knuckles scratches at the skin of her other thigh until she spreads her legs wider. 

“Shut up,” she orders, her own voice deeper than usual. Her hips shift on the desktop beneath her, tipping her toward him, one hand bracing against his chest, the black tanktop under her palm damp with cooling sweat and clinging to his body underneath.

He steps further into the space between her knees, the cheap fabric of his jeans chafing at her, and keeps drawing little circles into the skin of her thigh, edging closer but still not close enough to the pulsing ache between her legs. “Leave it there for Hunter to find,” he continues, ignoring her command, like he doesn't understand how quickly he could be future-endeavored if he doesn't please her. “Unless...” he draws out the pause while his thumb finally moves in one crude stroke over the sodden crotch of her panties, and all the air leaves her body in a shuddering gasp, “my lopsided face gets you so wet that the ink just runs right down your leg.”

“You disgust me,” she snarls. 

“Yep. It shows,” he says, smirking down at her hands, one twisting into the grimy material of his shirt, the other tucked into the close, sweaty space between the leather of the Championship and the swell of his ribcage.

“Can you also tell that you don't belong here, you reprobate?” she asks, gratified at how cool and even she manages to keep her voice, even as he brings his hand back to trace over the slick folds of her slit through the clinging material of her ruined underwear. “You think you deserve to walk into my ring, wearing whatever you've scrounged out of the rag-bag the last time you bothered to bathe, and put your dirty, worthless hands on this gold?” 

“Reprobate?” he chuckles. “I like that one.”

“You would.” She sneers, but doesn't quite manage to suppress her gasp as the first of his fingertips edges beneath elastic. “Degenerate.”

“Whoa, sweetheart, you already bagged one of those.” The last time she saw him grin quite so lewdly, Hunter had been seated in the desk-chair behind her. “And I ain't the marrying kind.”

“I'm sure the rats who usually throw you out of bed would be devastated to hear that,” she says, breath going jagged as he pushes the last scrap of satin out of his way and slides two, then three, fingers inside her, curving just the way she needs. She hates that he knows that, but not quite enough to push him away. Not enough to stop her back from arching into him when he swipes the slickened pad of his thumb over her clit in one of those maddeningly slow circles. 

“Tell you a secret, though,” he rasps, leaning into her space, so that his breath lands hot and muggy on her skin, the ratty scruff on his chin snagging against her own hair. She tips forward again, rocking into his rough hand. Her forehead comes to rest against his chest, damp shirt and matted hair on her skin, the smell of him – strong and salty and more familiar than she wants it to be – filling up her throat as he continues, low against her ear. “'S kinda fun, bein' the miscreant you're gonna let get wrist-deep in you one of these days.”

“In your pathetic wet dreams, Lunatic,” she groans, and then she's riding his fingers, her heels braced against the front of the desk, the hard edges of the face of the Title digging into her breasts where she presses helplessly against him. He rests his hand – the one that's not curling and sliding against her, expert and slick – at her hip to steady her, and she's appalled to realize that he thinks she needs support from someone like him. She means to tell him how absurd that is, to hiss about how she'll never get the smell of him out of her dress, but instead she's moaning a wordless sound into his chest, the salt of his skin sharp on her lips as she comes hard around his fingers. 

It's some comfort that he at least doesn't get to be smug about that for too long. She's still riding out an aftershock, shuddering against the emptiness as his fingers slip out of her, when he starts rubbing off on her hip. He ruts against her like the rangy, starved mutt he still is under the belt that rides up toward his chest as his hips stutter against her. 

“You're fucking vile,” she says, leaning up to spit the words directly into his ear while she jerks at a handful of his bedraggled hair, and the whole line of his body goes taut with his own release, his sticky fingers still underneath her skirt and squeezing hot and hard into her thigh.

He steps away after a moment, adjusting himself inside filthier-than-usual pants. The air is cool on her skin in the spaces he filled as she hitches herself down from the desktop and on to her feet. 

“Get out of my sight, Ambrose,” she says dismissively, ignoring the way her legs tremble underneath her. 

“Sure thing,” he says, backing toward the door and blowing her a kiss with the fingers she can still feel in her cunt. “You know how I hate to get the boss-lady mad.”


End file.
